Something Not Said
by Sianatra
Summary: The thing he loved most about Hermione was the was she could tell him so much with just a single glance. There was a truth behind her eyes, hiding there and just waiting to be uncovered, waiting to tell a story.


**A/N:** It's their story. 10 drabbles wound into one, 10 scenes of their life. But even though it's just 10, it can hold the story of a lifetime. This is based off of "10 Things I know About Hermione Granger," but it's a different thing altogether. Because this time, it's not just a list. It has an ending.

* * *

><p><em>so don't move an inch<em>  
><em>don't move a single second<em>  
><em>until the shade behind your thoughts is not confused<em>  
><em>because I felt your inch<em>  
><em>i know the scent as well as any<em>  
><em>clot in your guard<em>  
><em>and all paints or pollen<em>  
><em>brick in your mortar<em>  
><em>petals to soaking<em>  
><em>on the cracks<br>_-[_Paint or Pollen_, Blind Pilot)

* * *

><p>She is concentrating hard, I can tell. Her brow is furrowed in that inquisitive way of hers and I can hear her muttering things <em>under her breath<em> as she runs her finger down the list of ingredients. Her bushy hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her shirt is damply clinging to her body, but she looks sexy to me, she looks like a _princess_, even sitting there in that hot, dark room full of the smell of elixirs and things that have been dead for a long, long time. I _don't know why my legs are moving,_ don't know _why_ I'm walking over to her side until I'm there. And then my mouth, my _stupid_ mouth opens.

"Need help?"

She looks up. There is _fire in her eyes, _sparks _flying off _her tongue_._

"Go away."

The rejection. It's in _every_ _syllable_, infiltrating _every letter_, every _gap _between the words. With a sigh of contempt, she goes back to her book and _I walk back to my cauldron_ because maybe I'm _just_ _not cut out_ to be her Prince Charming.

I forget about my potion for the rest of the lesson, and even when it _simmers over_, I don't care, because I _only have eyes for her_, for watching her tiny little hands pour ingredients into her pot, watching her twist her hair around her finger and contemplate, watching her wrinkle her nose in frustration and flip through the pages _like they have an answer_. Watching her be _her_.

I stare at her, counting the freckles on her nose. She doesn't ever notice me, not even when I count _oh so high_, all the way up to _fourteen_. It's a magic number, and when the voice tells us we're dismissed, I leave and _wait for the night to come_. And then when it does, I stare out the window, stare into all that _shuddering blackness_, that cloudy expanse, and when my vision focuses, I see _fourteen stars_, one for _every single freckle_.

ooo

Across the room, I see her sitting with Potter and Weasley, talking to them, grinning. She's sipping something from a goblet, maybe pumpkin juice, maybe just water, but when she puts it down, she has the _biggest smile_ on her face. She _laughs_ at something Weasley said, and even though it was probably something unintelligible, I see her eyes flash for a second, merriment lighting them up like _fireworks_. But even after the moment passes, _she's still smiling_, smiling as Potter passes the butter to her, smiling as she cuts off a wedge and applies it to her toast, smiling as she takes a delicious bite.

It's unfair. How can her lips be so curvaceous, her teeth so straight and white? I forget about breakfast because _time is standing still_, everything is frozen in motion. I study the movement of her lips, every gracefully swooping _curve_, every smirk of _amusement_, every grin of _that's-so-funny_. And maybe I've just been looking too long or maybe she feels my eyes _staring_ at her, but she looks up at me, meets my gaze head on.

And all of a sudden, _she's not smiling anymore_.

We hold glances for _nothing_, less than a _second_, but it's enough to tell me everything I need to know.

ooo

She's sitting in the library when I walk in, yawning. It's hardly a surprise to see her here, buried behind an _endless_ stack of books, because when you _think_ about it, 2 in the morning really _isn't that late_, especially not when your paper about the lifecycle of flobberworms is due in two weeks. I walk past _silently_, trying to go unnoticed.

Inconspicuousness, _as it seems_, does not suit mevery well.

A_ hiss_ out of the darkness. "What are you doing here?" She's perched on the edge of her chair, eyes _peering_ out at me from over the top of her book. Candlelight transforms her face to a flickering mass of _shadows_ and _perfection_. She's wearing pajamas, great big _hideous_ things made of flannel, but she still looks beautiful, like she just _stepped out of a dream_.

"Returning a book."

"And I just became Headmistress of Hogwarts."

"No, really. See? It's right here. Catch."

I throw the book in an upward arc, watch it _fly_ toward the ceiling like a _caged bird set free_. She looks scandalized but _really_, what else can she do but catch it? So as it flies through the air, she opens her _arms_ and after one wavering, hovering second, it falls down neatly. She glares daggers at me and _reads the title_.

"_A History of Transmorflagration and the Dangers it Imposes on Modern Society_?" She quirks an eyebrow and looks up at me, completely _dubious_. "Doesn't exactly sound like the thing Mr. Malfoy would be reading in his free time."

"Wasn't my book. It was Crabbe's."

And I leave before she can make another reply. It's best to leave her to _herself_ tonight, buried in her books and knowledge, cramming all that _learning_ into that pretty little head.

Distractions can wait until another day.

ooo

McGonagall has _asked_ the question, the hand _flies _into the air.

"Yes… Miss Granger?"

"Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration."

"Precisely. 10 points to Gryffindor."

And while the rest of the world tries to _figure it out_, she relaxes back into her seat, a smile as _bright as the sun_ on her face. This is her place, her time, and we're all just strangers on her planet of knowingness. But then I catch a glimpse of her face, a _real _glimpse, and what I see shocks me because the triumph is _gone_, the victory has _abandoned_ her, and all I see left is a girl with a tired expression and red-ringed eyes.

She's been _crying_.

I don't think anyone else notices. But I do.

ooo

Every single day, when every last piece of toast has been _gobbled_, each egg _devoured_, every glass of orange juice _poured_, she sits there eating her oatmeal with diced peaches. It's a strange combination, something you wouldn't come to _expect_ of the sensible, pragmatic Hermione, but one that she enjoys nonetheless. It's her _comfort food_, something she relies on to pull her through each day.

She's eating it again today, nodding and _smiling _at something Weasley is saying. I decide to try it because _when has a little oatmeal ever hurt anyone_? I ladle some into a bowl and the _steam_ washes over my face, almost soothing. I raise the spoon to my mouth and _take a bite_.

It's perfect. Almost _unbelievably_ so.

I finish one bowl and _go for another_.

As I'm finishing my second bowl, our eyes _catch_ among the sea of crowded faces. She looks at the bowl, then back up at me, and I swear, I can almost _swear_ that the corner of her mouth turns up.

I see her face in my mind for the rest of the day.

ooo

She's crouched down in the last aisle, _snuggled_ up against the shelf with a smile on her face because she's _reading a book_. It's something about her casual posture that strikes me, resonates within my heart. She doesn't _care_, she really doesn't care if anyone sees her because this is her _home_, this is her _element_, and she knows she belongs here, hiding behind these shelves with a _world_ at her little fingertips. This time, she's reading a leather-bound book, a dusty old thing that looked like it's survived _through the ages_. I can't recall her ever looking happier than she does right now, dust on the tips of her fingers as she flips _page_ after _page_.

A small, _careless _movement, and her head flips up predatorily.

"Who's there?"

I duck behind a bookshelf and mutter a quiet _reprimand_ to myself because I never thought that even the _faintest_ flash of pale blonde hair could distract her.

Apparently so.

"Who's there?" she says quietly, more desperately.

I want _so badly_ to say something, but even as the words are _leaping_ into my throat, _longing_ to escape, I push them back down. As I walk away, softly and _so mad_ at myself, I whisper an answer.

"No one."

ooo

"Granger, I just want to talk to you."

"Leave me alone."

"Please, Granger, just give me a chance."

"I said leave me alone."

"But – "

"Do you not understand English?" She whirls around to face me, fire dancing in her eyes. "Or are you simply too egotistical to realize that some people in this world would just rather not have to deal with you every day?"

Her words _hurt_. They sting, as if each one is alive and _stabbing me in the chest_. I take a deep, _shuddering_ breath and dislodge the chips of ice piecing me.

"Granger – I mean – " I pause. "Hermione."

She looks up at me, and I can see _something_ in her eyes, something _change_, something _shift_.

And then I _see_ her. _All_ of her, exposed before me, her mind a beautiful place for me to explore, me to _see_ as she stands there, _vulnerable_ and completely mine. Her eyes are _broken_, and I can see it _all_, see her pain and _every teardrop she's ever cried_, every time she's ever stayed up late into the night, pushing for _glory _and praying for a _miracle_.

The words bubble into my throat and this time I don't stop them.

"I love you."

A flicker of confusion flits across her face because this _isn't what she's used to_, isn't what she's _expecting_.

She takes a step backwards. "A little too much to drink at Blaise's party last night?" Her smile is uneasy, cautious, _guarded_, and it breaks my heart because the first time she ever _smiles_ at me, _really_ smiles at me, it is out of pity.

ooo

"Look, Granger, what I wanted to say is – "

"That you're sorry. I get it." She turns to look at me, adjusting the books in her arms. "You don't need to explain any more than that. You were drunk. Happens to everyone." She says this like it's the most _reasonable_ thing in the world, then goes back to shelving the books, her fingertips gently caressing each spine as she slides it back into its proper place.

I want to _scream_ at her, take her by the arms and _shake_ her, tell her that I _wasn't_ drunk that night, that I _wasn't_ just trying to pull something over her head, I was _telling the truth_.

Somehow, she can see my internal struggle. Putting the books down for a moment, she lays a small hand on my arm and I have to tell myself to breathe because _maybe I'm not in heaven yet_. I close my eyes tightly then open them, and she is _still _looking at me, her face scrunched up into a cute cross between bewilderment and reassurance.

"Are you okay?"

When I don't respond, she removes her hand and turns back to the bookshelf, twisting a small stand of hair around her finger. She doesn't know what to _say_ anymore. I know I should tell her _something_, at least _acknowledge_ that she has tried to help me, but my brain doesn't seem to be working properly.

"I – I'm okay," I manage finally, breaking the silence. "I – I think I'll leave now."

She doesn't respond, just goes back to shelving books, and not for the first time since I've met her, my heart takes a plunge.

ooo

It was a rough Quidditch match. Flint fell off his broom twice, Weasley snapped a few fingers, and while diving for the Snitch, my broom had other plans and bucked me right into the stands. They said I was lucky to escape with only a fractured femur and a few bruises.

I didn't feel lucky.

Weasley's bed was right next to me, and every so often he'd shoot me a disparaging look, which I would return with my customary smirk. No use wasting my breath on him, who whimpered in pain and clutched his fingers to his chest every few minutes, like he had suffered the most terrifying injury ever recorded in the history of Quidditch. But now his presence was a _blessing_, because she came sailing in through the door.

Her hair was _windblown_, her cheeks rosy, and I could swear there were _snowflakes clinging to her lashes_. She went straight to his bedside, all fuss and worry, a nurturing angel in the form of a person.

"Oh Ron, _Ron_, I thought that when he slammed into you – I – I thought – "

"Nah, just a few fingers, 'Mione, that's all," says Ron, squeezing her hand with his good one. "Just a few fingers." She sighs in relief and _clutches his hand tighter_.

I almost snort. The comment '_just a few fingers'_ doesn't really match up with the shrieks of agony he let out just a few minutes ago when Madam Pomfrey force-fed him a spoonful of Skele-Gro, but I decide not to comment.

She stays for a few more minutes before Madam Pomfrey decides to close the Hospital Wing to visitors. The pain in my leg is growing stronger with every second that passes, but I force myself to ignore it, force myself to concentrate on _her_, only her, to not let anything else cross my mind. She stands up to leave, a big smile on her face as she looks down at her friend.

"Harry misses you already," she says. "Get better soon, okay?" She starts to leave, then hesitates for a moment. She turns back around.

"You too, Malfoy."

This time, when she turns around, she continues walking out the door and doesn't look back.

But that's when I realize that my leg doesn't hurt anymore.

ooo

Because now, it's not just rumor after all these years, it's _fact_, and it's staring me straight in the face, sparkling like a diamond, because it _is_ a diamond. It's _hooked around her finger_, and he's hooked around her _arm_, walking in my direction. Two years working at the Ministry and I'd never seen a sight as unsettling, something so raw that it could tear everything inside of me to _shreds_.

She's engaged, and the ring, the cursed _ring_ – it's proof.

I never gave up hoping after I left Hogwarts. _Never _gave up hoping that she might still have feelings for me, harbored somewhere so deep inside that she just couldn't find them, couldn't _dig them up_ out of the _dirt_ and _ashes_ she'd scarred her memory of me with. But then as time passed, my naivety lessened, and I began to realize that maybe the whole time I'd known her, I was just kidding myself. Maybe she'd hated me _all along_.

But as they pass me in the hallway of the Ministry, Ron and Hermione, happy couple-to-be, she lifts up her face… and smiles.

It's a smile, nothing more than that. But it speaks volumes.

It says that we can never be more than just acquaintances. We can never be friends, never be lovers; all that we can be are two people whose paths met on the road of life one day and happened to intertwine for a few moments. We aren't enemies, and she never hated me, but she's never felt anything for me.

So as she passes me, arm linked with her future husband, I stare at her retreating form until my eyes burn.

And this picture of her – this one, last desperate picture I have of her, so happy and so beautiful – will have to stay locked in my memory forever.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Please tell me how this made you feel. It would make my day so much if you pressed that review button(:

XOXO,  
>-Sianatra<p> 


End file.
